


If the Moon Gets Stuck in a Tree, Cover the Hole in the Sky with a Strawberry

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Post-Call of the Wild, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Vegas, Vecchio's looking forward to renewing his friendship with Fraser.  Fraser's fallen in love with Kowalski, who just wants to be friends.  And Kowalski wonders if Vecchio might be interested in more than friendship with Fraser after all. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Moon Gets Stuck in a Tree, Cover the Hole in the Sky with a Strawberry

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to get this finished for the 2015 Ray Vecchio Birthday Challenge, but I have seriously missed the boat. Have some fic anyway!
> 
> Title is a quote from _If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow_ , an illustrated book by Cooper Edens.

Look, I’m not stupid. By the time I walked out of the Hotel California as Ray Vecchio instead of Armando Langoustini, I knew Fraser’d found himself another best friend. And so yeah, maybe I wasn’t very friendly to Kowalski for those couple of days, there. But mostly I was happy to see that Fraser was doing okay, that he was still _there_ and not disappeared back up North, and that he still considered me his friend. All of which I’d hoped and prayed for, those two years in Vegas, but I hadn’t counted on.

So, even flat on my back in a hospital bed with a bullet in my gut, I was so fucking relieved that everything had worked out as well as it had. All I wanted was to get back to my real life, back to normal. . .or something close to it. I already knew it wasn’t going to be exactly the same as before, because there was Kowalski, and there was Fraser beaming at the both of us, and no, the guy wasn’t going to disappear anytime soon. But I figured that was okay. I wasn’t three years old; I didn’t have to be Fraser’s _only_ friend.

Even when Fraser and Kowalski decided to stay up in Canada for some kind of dogsledding vacation, after the whole Muldoon/Bolt/nuclear sub thing was wrapped up, that didn’t bother me too much. Because Fraser sent me that news along with the other news that he was turning down an offer to transfer back to Canada, and coming back to Chicago instead. That was the only thing I cared about. And when the docs told me it was going to be early retirement for me, I was actually grateful that Kowalski existed. Because no way could Fraser be happy pushing paper at the Consulate; he needed to be doing policework, and he needed a partner to do it with. And if that couldn’t be me any more, well. . .well, at least Kowalski was there to do it. Yeah.

Then, two weeks after the arrests, I’m driving home from yet another fucking physical therapy session—had to borrow Frannie’s car, but at least they’ve finally cleared me to drive—and there’s Fraser waiting out front of the house. Dief sitting on one side, duffel bag on the other. Looking about as miserable as I’ve ever seen him, although he’s doing that stiff-upper-lip thing he does.

I’m out of the car almost before I’ve shut the ignition off.

“Fraser! What happened? I thought you weren’t due back for another two weeks.” He doesn’t look injured, but I’m patting him down, checking that he’s all in one piece. “Are you okay? You didn’t have an accident or anything? Kowalski’s okay?”

“No, Ray’s fine. We’re all in good health.” I notice he’s careful not to claim that _he’s_ ‘fine;’ still doesn’t like straight-up lying. “We just decided we’d had enough adventuring.”

“What, you just wake up one day and realize, you seen one polar bear, seen ‘em all?”

He doesn’t take the bait; just shakes his head, looking down at Dief, who’s sniffing my shoes.

“I. . .I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay.” He looks like he really doesn’t want to be pushed, so I don’t.   “Well, so. . .you want to come in? Take a load off, stay for dinner?” I suggest, sidestepping the mutt before he can give the loafers a taste-test.

“Thank you.” Fraser’s still not quite meeting my eyes. “Actually, I was—could I ask you a favor?”

“Sure, name it.” The words are out of my mouth before I remember that that’s a dangerous thing to say to Fraser: I could end up with a house full of homeless people or having a gunfight on a tightrope. But except for those couple of days before he took off after Muldoon, I haven’t seen the man in almost two years, and he looks so sad and lost. This is not the time to draw lines in the sand.

“I—as you say, I’m back earlier than expected, and my living arrangements—I can always set up a cot in my office, I’ve done it before, it’s perfectly comfortable. But I was wondering whether you could possibly put me up for the night.”

“Of course! What, are you crazy? You’re welcome any time, you know that.”

He finally raises his eyes to mine and gives me a little smile: a real one, even if it’s kind of sad. I grin big to show him how it’s done, then pull him in for a hug.

“Jesus, I’ve missed you, Benny.” I didn’t exactly mean to say that, and my voice is suddenly wobbling all over the place, but you know, who cares? It’s not like I don’t want him to know how much he means to me.

He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes me hard and he doesn’t even try to let go until I do.

“Come on in,” I say, reaching for Fraser’s bag, but he beats me to it. Probably just as well; that duffel’s probably got everything Benny owns in it, and I’m not cleared for heavy lifting. The worried look he shoots me as he slings the bag over his shoulder says he’s thinking the same thing. So I clap him hard on his free shoulder and steer him inside, chatting loudly about Ma’s leftovers and making up the bed in the guestroom and whatever else I can think of to take his mind off both our troubles. Because that’s what friends do.

 

                        *                                              *                                              *

 

First thing next morning, I give Fraser a ride to the Consulate, then trundle my on-medical-leave-not-officially-retired-yet ass over to the 2-7. I march up to what used to be my desk, grab Kowalski by the arm, and haul him into the supply closet. He squawks but doesn’t actually resist, which is convenient, seeing as how I’m not up for anything much more physically strenuous tying my shoes.

“What did you do to Fraser?” I demand.

“What do you think?” He crosses his arms, but his head’s down. Not spoiling for a fight; taking what he’s got coming.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Nothing you didn’t do before I came along,” he says sullenly.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Kowalski frowns like he can’t decide whether I’m being an asshole or an idiot.

“Do I really have to spell this out for you?” he asks.

“Yes, and make it sometime this century, for the love of God.”

He sighs, his shoulders slumping a little.

“I told him I love him like a brother and I’d happily take a bullet for him, but I don’t—I’m not—I can’t love him like that. Like he wants to be loved.”

He looks me right in the eye and waits for that to sink in. Which takes longer than it should, because my brain has frozen into sludge.

“Like. . .not a brother?” I stammer, at last.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me Fraser. . . ?”

“You have got to be kidding me.” He shakes his head incredulously. “I mean, you’ve had this conversation with him yourself, for crying out loud. Back in the day. Haven’t you?”

I shake my head, too shocked to make words come out of my mouth.

“You’re fucking—you’re serious?” But he can see I’m not joking. “You didn’t know Fraser’s. . .you didn’t even know he likes guys.”

“No.”

“Fuck.” Kowalski bangs his fist into the wall, but softly; maybe worried about someone hearing the noise. “Fuck, fuck fuck.” Now he does the soft-punch thing into the side of his own head. “I’m a colossal fuck-up. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, probably not,” I choke out.

Fraser likes guys? Fraser likes guys. It’s like one of those hidden picture dealies; once someone points it out to you, the face jumps out of the background noise, and how the Hell did you miss it before?

“You’re not gonna. . . ?” Kowalski’s voice goes high and tight. “If you hurt him—”

“If _I_ hurt him? You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?”

“No, just straight,” he snaps, and there’s the anger I’ve been expecting from him all this time. Now _he’s_ in _my_ face, and suddenly the closet seems a lot smaller. “Come on, Vecchio, don’t be an asshole. You disappeared to Vegas and left him with a crappy postcard and a total fucking stranger, so don’t give me this self-righteous bullshit.”

I should be pissed; for a second, I _am_ pissed. Who the hell does he think he is, trying to bully me, and about _Fraser,_ for Christ’s sake? But he’s not saying anything I haven’t already admitted to myself. And who he is. . .is Fraser’s partner, his best friend, the guy who stands up for him against all comers. Like I used to be.

“I’m not gonna give him shit,” I say quietly, slumping back against the shelves. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

He gives me a narrow-eyed stare, then nods and backs off. Not that there’s room to back off much, in here.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. Like that solves anything.

“Yeah, okay, but what about Fraser? He’s still. . .” It feels like betrayal, now, to tell him how bad off Benny seems to be.

But Kowalski seems to get the gist, anyway. He sighs heavily, the anger gone as fast as it appeared.

“I don’t know. I mean. . .what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“He say. . .” Now he’s examining his fingernails, pretend-casual. “He say if he’s coming back? To work? To liaising?”

“Didn’t say. But I figure. . .I mean, he’s back in Chicago, right? What else would he do?”

Kowalski hesitates for a long moment, then says quietly, still looking down at his hands, “He know you’re retiring?”

For a second, I wonder how _Kowalski_ knows that; I haven’t exactly put an ad in the paper. But, no, he works here, he could just ask Welsh if he wanted to. Welsh’d figure he needed to know, and I can’t really blame either of them.

“No,” I answer. “It hasn’t come up.”

Kowalski nods, unsurprised.

“Look,” he says, spreading out his hands like he’s asking for a favor. “I don’t—as far as I’m concerned, it’s. . .but if Fraser doesn’t want to work with me, and he can’t work with you. . .”

“Who says he doesn’t want to work with you?”

“He doesn’t want to _talk_ to me. He pulled the plug on the quest, which, fine, I get that, but he wouldn’t. . .it was a long fucking trek back, you know, and. . .and then he wouldn’t even split a cab from the airport.”

“Can you blame him?” I ask.

“Don’t blame him. I just. . .what are we gonna do?” Now Kowalski’s looking almost as miserable as Fraser did last night. And I’m feeling pretty sick myself.

“Look, it’ll be okay, it’ll work out.” I don’t know if I believe what I’m saying, but step one is to talk a good game. “Give him some time to deal.”

I’m not going to think about what happened the last time Benny got his heart broken. At least Kowalski’s not going to wreck Benny’s life on purpose.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” Kowalski sounds like he’s trying to talk himself down. “And you’ll keep an eye on him? Make sure. . . ?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

Seems like the conversation’s over, but Kowalski’s between me and the door, and he doesn’t move. Just stands there rubbing the back of his neck and looking at everything except my face.

“What?” I ask when I can’t stand it any more.

“So. . .if you didn’t have that conversation with Fraser before. . .was that because it never came up, or because you maybe wouldn’t have minded if it did come up?”

“I. . .” Jesus, I’ve never said this to anybody. I’ve barely said it in so many words to myself. But he’s got a right to know, now. “I wouldn’t have minded. But that was before. Now I don’t even know what Fraser thinks of me any more.”

He blinks, then shakes his head with a wry half-smile (which is more smile than I’ve ever seen from him yet).

“He thinks the sun shines out of your ass. Always did.”

 

                        *                                              *                                              *

 

The house is extra-noisy that evening: Maria and Frannie having a showdown about I-can’t-tell-what while the kids play some kind of running-and-shrieking game up and down the stairs. Fraser likes my family and he likes kids, but he’s looking pretty frayed by the time dinner’s on the table, which is a fine excuse to drag him out for a drive after.

I head over to Schiller Woods, drive around the edge for a while, and end up pulling into a lot where—well, it’s not exactly a scenic overlook, but mostly what we can see is trees and sky instead of skyscrapers and concrete. We sit there with the windows rolled down, staring out into the woods. I glance over at Benny now and again to see how he’s doing. Looks like the quiet’s unwinding him some, though he’s still not exactly cheerful.

“Sorry about the craziness,” I say after a while.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I enjoy your family’s. . .exuberance. It’s just that sometimes I find it a little. . .much.”

“Yeah, me too. And I didn’t grow up in the wide open spaces like you did. Hey, how come you moved out of your old place, anyway? They finally condemn it or something?” ~~~~

Fraser’s still staring out the window; his voice is flat when he answers. “It burned down just after you left, and I never got around to finding another.”

“You never _got around to it?_ ”

“At first, I wasn’t sure how long I would be staying, given. . .how things had changed. And then. . .well, I suppose I was too busy to think about it.”

“Benny. . .” Now I can’t look at him, either. “I’m sorry. I left you in the lurch, didn’t even explain.”

“You were sworn to secrecy,” he says, turning my way for the first time.

“Yeah, but I could’ve told the Feds to go fuck themselves on that one.” I take a breath and force myself to look him in the eyes. “For you. For my best friend. I owed you at least that much.”

We’re only a few inches apart, but it’s too dark to make out details well. I think I see Fraser’s eyes widen. Is he surprised to hear me say it? Surprised at the idea that I might owe him something? I can’t tell. It’s hard to know what goes on in his head at the best of times, and I’m out of practice and too nervous to concentrate. But I definitely see his little nod of acknowledgement.

“You left me that postcard,” he says quietly. “I understood, honestly.”

“A postcard and a total stranger.” Kowalski’s words are bitter in my mouth. It worked out okay, I know that now, but what must it have been like for Fraser, coming back from vacation, and here’s this random guy pretending to be your best friend, he’s your partner now, have fun! If I’d been Fraser, I’d have told them to go screw themselves and caught the next plane back to Canada. . .but Fraser’s Fraser.

“And they nailed you down, didn’t they?” I say, because of course they did. “Told you you had to stay to protect my cover? So you stayed.”

“It seemed prudent,” he says. “And I. . .I didn’t mind.”

His gaze drifts away, out the windshield, and this wistful little smile creeps over his face, and for a second I can see exactly how much he didn’t mind partnering with Kowalski.

“I felt I was doing my part,” he adds. Then his mouth twists like he’s bitten into rotten meat. “Though when it actually mattered, I didn’t do much for your cover, did I?”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. "I’m not mad at you for that. Sure, I was ticked at the time, but you know what? Blowing my cover was the best thing you ever did for me. Fucking Feebies were never gonna let me wrap up the gig and go home; they’d have kept stringing me along as Langoustini ‘till the day I died. You got me out.”

“I got you shot. Again.”

“Yeah, I could’ve done without that part,” I admit. “But. . .listen, Benny. I don’t know if we can ever be even-steven, you and me. There’s just too much crap on the scorecard, good and bad. But you know what? I don’t care about keeping score. I just want. . .”

I trail off because it’s too much, the stuff in my head, the stuff between us; it’s too big; and Fraser’s watching me, intent and curious and. . .wanting. I mean, he’s always wanted all kinds of stuff from me, but now I have no idea _what_ or _how much_ , and the way he’s looking at me, I feel like maybe there’s an ocean of wanting inside him that I could drown in.

And I’m suddenly really conscious of how close our bodies are to each other right now, and of my hand on him, and the fact that we’re sitting together in a dark car in a place teenagers probably go to make out, even though none of that meant anything a second ago.

It takes an effort, but I leave my hand where it is, resting on his shoulder, and I don’t break eye contact as I tell him, “I want us to be good. You and me. . . .Are we good?”

“If you say so,” he says, looking right back.

“I do say so.”

“Then, yes. We’re good.”

Feels like some sharp chunk of ice in my gut just melts away.

“Good. Good. I’m glad.” And then I deliberately start kneading his shoulder, real gently, stroking it with my thumb. It’s nothing much, but it’s different from any way I’ve ever touched him before. More than just the way you’d touch a friend. “And. . .you know. . .I know we can’t go back and be just like we were before, but. . .”

All of a sudden he tenses under my hand, his posture going stiff. Shit, shit, shit. I let go of him; rest my hands on the wheel because I don’t know what else to do with them.

“No, I know,” he says. “Francesca told me.” Which makes no sense at all. What the Hell does Frannie have to do with anything? But before I can ask, he goes on, real soft and sad: “Ray, I’m sorry.”

“What? Sorry for what?” I’m practically yelling, although the last thing I feel is angry. “I thought we were through apologizing.”

“You’re retiring. Because of—”

“Because I got a bullet in me.” Oh yeah, I get it now. And I understand how he feels; oh, boy, do I understand.

“Look, it’s okay, Benny,” I tell him. “I mean. . .after Vegas I’m kind of. . .done with the whole deal. Guns and slimeballs and risking my life. . .I’ve put in my time. This way, I get to retire early, full pension, do whatever I want. The world is my oyster.”

“I see.”

He doesn’t say he’s got a bullet in him too and the only time he’s going to retire is when he stops breathing, if then. He doesn’t need to.

After staring out into the dark and the trees for a while, he asks, “And what do you want to do?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Travel, see the world. . .spend some time laying on a beach in the sun. . .maybe I’ll open a bowling alley. Or a llama farm, that’s a real thing, people here in the U.S. raising llamas, would you believe it? Or I’ll go to Canada and rent snowmobiles to American tourists. The point is. . .Look, Benny, while you’ve been up north I’ve had a lot of time to do a lot of thinking, and you know what I think? I got two things I care a damn about in this life: my family, and you. And my family, well, I love them and I’ll always look out for them, but what I need is. . .something of my own, someone who cares about me just because they like me. . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because Fraser is giving me that deep-ocean look again, except this time he’s smiling, and Jesus Christ, I always forget how young he can look sometimes.

“The demand for recreational snowmobiles in the Territories is certainly increasing,” he says earnestly. “For better or worse, tourism is expanding. A principled person with a good business plan and a regard for safety and environmental concerns could be a boon to his community and turn enough profit to make a living. Of course, part of the plan would have to be an alternative business for the summer months, but there are a number of options that dovetail nicely with. . .”

He’s off and running with that enthusiasm he only gets for weird stuff no one else has ever heard of, or for lost causes. This is the Fraser I remember; the one who’s been missing in action since he arrived on my doorstep. I have to grin as I listen to him jabber on about I-don’t-even-know-what, but my stomach feels like I’m in an elevator and someone’s cut the cable.

 

                        *                                              *                                              *

 

Kowalski looks up and sees me coming across the bullpen. He’s on his feet before I can even open my mouth; steers me straight into the supply closet.

“I think I just promised Fraser Canada,” I blurt as he closes the door behind us.

“What the Hell did you do that for?” He sounds almost as panicked as I do. “Have you been to Canada? I mean Fraser’s Canada with the snow and the sled dogs and the no indoor plumbing?”

“Yes.”

“And you hated it, right?”

“Hey, the circumstances were not exactly ideal. You try bushwhacking through the forest with no supplies and a paralyzed partner.”

“How about climbing a mountain in the snow when it’s so damn cold your eyelashes freeze when you blink?”

“I don’t know which was worse, the time with the snow or the time with the blackflies.”

“You hated it.”

“I didn’t. . .” I sigh. “Yeah, okay, I hated it. And it hates me right back.”

“So why the hell did you tell Fraser—?”

“I didn’t do it on _purpose._ I just made some crack about opening up a snowmobile repair shop, and—”

“Did he believe you?” He grabs me by the shirtfront and I’m so rattled I don’t even try to fight back.

“I don’t _know_. I was just—”

“Because that’s the one promise you cannot make if you’re gonna welsh. Fraser can take a lot, but he ain’t made of stone, and that’s where his fucking heart is—”

“I know that. You think I don’t damn well _know_ that?”

“—and you cannot take him back there and then decide you hate it and _leave_ , or _die_ in a fucking ice crevasse, because that will—”

“I know. I _know_. I’m his best friend, for Christ’s sake, where the Hell do you get off telling me what Fraser—”

“Not any more, you’re not.” He leans forward, pressing me back against the closet door. All that frantic energy is suddenly reined in, focused; his voice is low and sharp as he says, “ _I’m_ the best friend now. What _you_ are, is the—the suitor.”

That stops me dead; stunned. Not like it’s news, but to hear him _say_ it like that, and with such a. . . _Fraser_ word. . .

“I—yeah, I guess I am. I am.”

Kowalski nods like he’s a teacher and I just gave the right answer to a math problem.

“And because the only relative he’s got still living, he only met a few months ago, I also get to play the part of the family, here,” he says. “Meaning, I’m the guy you’ve got to impress if you don’t want your _suit_ squashed like a bug. So, impress me.”

With that, he lets me go, takes a step back, and crosses his arms. I cross mine, too, mostly to keep from giving in to the urge to smooth down my shirt.

“I’m not gonna leave him. I’m not gonna lie to him. I don’t want to hurt him, but you know how that goes: I’ve done it before and I didn’t want to then, either. I just—I love him and I want to make him happy. That’s what I’ve got.”

“Sounds good so far. So, how are you going to do that?”

“Look,” I say. “I don’t know what to say, here. I mean, I don’t know what to say to _Fraser,_ that’s the whole problem. I mean, I’ve said a lot of important stuff already—we both did—stuff that needed saying, and which is none of your damn business. But as far as, you know, the romantic stuff goes. . .Don’t get me wrong, I’m a smooth operator, but all I know about romancing Fraser is a great big list of what not to do. And right at the top of that list goes anything I know of that’s ever actually _worked_ on him.”

Kowalski nods seriously. He obviously knows Fraser well enough to get what I’m talking about, even if he doesn’t know about Victoria. And Hell, for all I know, maybe Fraser told him that whole stinking story.

“Anyway, my foot was in my mouth before I even got a chance to _try._ ” I throw up my hands in frustration. “And now he thinks—and I’m gonna have to somehow—and I still haven’t even told him that I love him.”

“Yeah,” says Kowalski. “That’s a good place to start.”

 

 

                        *                                              *                                              *

 

Next morning, I stall Fraser in the kitchen, lingering over breakfast while Frannie and Maria and Tony get their kids and themselves off to school and work, and then washing up the dishes until Ma leaves for the hairdresser’s. By that point, Fraser pretty clearly knows something’s up. Maybe because my excuses to keep him in the house are getting pretty lame, or maybe because I’m too nervous to sit still. But he gamely waits for me to sit him down again at the kitchen table and get to the point.

“Benny, you know how I feel about Canada, don’t you? I mean, I’m sure it’s a great place and all, except every time I set foot over the border it tries to kill me.”

His face goes so blank he might as well be on statue duty.

“You certainly haven’t had the best luck there,” he says carefully.

“And you know me, I’m a city boy.”

“Indeed.”

“But you also know I got nothing against Canadians, right? I mean, hey, what’s not to like?” I’m so frantic to wipe that no-expression off his face, to bring back the smile and the deep-ocean eyes or _something_ , that I barely know what’s coming out of my mouth. “They’re polite and honorable and brave and loyal and they have big mushy hearts and they never give up and they talk like they swallowed a dictionary and they do crazy shit like lick used gum and get themselves locked in meat freezers and if you hang out with them too long you start believing that we’re all secretly saints, if only we’d—”

“Ray, I think your image of Canadians may be—“

“I love Canadians, Benny. Oh, for—I love _you._ ”

There! I finally spit it out! I’m so relieved that it takes me a second to realize that Fraser doesn’t look relieved, or happy.

“I know,” he says, all stiff-upper-lip like that first night when he refused to talk about what happened with Kowalski. “Your friendship has always meant a great deal—”

“No, you _don’t_ know. I _love_ you,” I insist. Maybe if I say it enough times, he’ll get it through his thick skull. “I hate Canada, but I love you, so I don’t want you to go back there, because I’m a selfish SOB and I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if I lose you.”

That at least shocks him into showing a reaction. His eyes widen for a second, then he closes them. When he opens them again, he’s frowning unhappily.

“Ray. . .” He shakes his head. I don’t think it’s outright refusal; looks more like helplessness, except when has Fraser ever felt helpless—or admitted it?

“Look, Benny,” I say as gently as I can. “I’m not gonna ask you to stop being who you are or give up what you love. I never want to do that. I just—I want you to be happy. And I thought maybe you could be happy with me. And I thought you didn’t hate Chicago too much.”

“I don’t hate Chicago,” he says, and Fraser doesn’t lie in so many words, so he must mean it. “Not when—not with my friends here. With you here. But. . .” Another head-shake.

“But you want to go home?”

His mouth works, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, put it another way,” I try. “If you could still do real work here, cop work.” He opens his mouth to object, but I don’t give him a chance. “Just pretend for second, okay? If you had the work, and you had. . .me, could you be happy here?”

Still no answer, but his eyes are fixed on my face: ocean eyes.

“It’s okay to say no, Benny. We’ll still be good. No matter what. Just tell me what you want. We’ll find a way to make it happen. You and me, there’s nothing we can’t do, right?”

I wait, and I wait. . .and finally he gives me a tiny nod. Good.

“So, what do you want?” I ask softly.

He still doesn’t say anything, but I bite my tongue to give him time. We got all the time in the world for this. . .

He touches my face with his fingertips, real slow and soft, like he’s petting a wild animal. But I’m not the one who’s going to run or bite, here, and I’ve got nothing to hide. I hold still, hold his eyes with mine, as his fingers trace my cheeks, jaw, eyebrows, temples, ears. Let him read me like Braille, while his eyes search mine. Looking for what, I don’t know, but I guess he finally finds it, because he leans in and kisses me—and that’s slow and gentle, too, but man, I feel it all the way through me. Not in a sexy way, even; like I’m a churchbell, chiming from the inside. Feeling flowing through me and into him as my lips move with his.

When it ends, Benny backs off just enough to look at my face again.

“You. . .” he whispers. Whatever he’s seeing, he can’t believe it. No, that’s wrong. He believes it, all right; he just never expected to see it.

“Yeah, I want you, Benny,” I whisper back. “You want me?”

“Yes.” He’s scared—and that’s something you don’t see often—but there’s that old Fraser certainty in his quiet voice. “Ray. I want you.”

“You got me.”

The smile that spreads over his face sets that chime ringing again.

When his mouth touches mine this time, the kissing doesn’t stay quite so slow. We start exploring, Benny kissing along my jaw and up to my ear while I cradle his head with one hand, stroking his throat with the other. It’s still more tender than anything else—but there’s a spark there, and I can tell it’s not just coming from me. It’s kind of a mindbending thought: Benny having sexual feelings; Benny having sex. But I can tell he does and he will and it’s entirely possible that it will make my head explode.

Meanwhile, I’m kissing his face, babbling bits and pieces of reassurance between breaths: “You got me. . .I got you. . .it’s gonna be okay. . .it’s gonna be great, we’re gonna be great. . .you and me, Benny. . .”

“Ray. . .Ray. . .” he murmurs into my neck.

“And we’ll find you an apartment—or we’ll find _us_ an apartment. If you want. With a bathroom, and a dishwasher and locks on the door. And a king size bed.”

He pulls back to look at my face, with a shocked expression.

“No?” I ask. “Too much?”

He shakes his head.

“But your family. . . ?” he asks.

“What?”

“They’d know. You wouldn’t mind?”

“You’re not my dirty secret,” I snap. Fortunately, he doesn’t take my sharp tone the wrong way; he’s smiling even before I add, more gently, “You’re my partner.”

“Understood,” he says, and pulls me into a rib-cracking hug.

“You just got to do one thing for me, okay? Patch things up with Kowalski.” He tenses up, but I hang on and don’t let him pull away from me. “No, come on. He’s your best friend—well, he will be, now that I’m gonna be your. . .lover.” That gets his attention. “He’s got your back, he loves you like crazy, just not—”

“I know,” he says.

“Not the way I love you,” I finish, looking him in the eyes. And God love him, his expression goes all soft again. For _me._

“Right,” I say, because this is important; I can drown in his eyes later. “So, you make things right with him, you two do the police partners thing, there’s your job problem solved, you can keep making the streets safer for little old ladies and kiddies. And Hell, you can take him up to Canada for vacations, too; the two of you can freeze your asses off together, and I can stay home by a nice, warm TV knowing that if you get struck blind you’ve got someone to haul you back to civilization in one piece.”

Speaking of head injuries, now Benny’s giving me the shocked-stupid stare of a guy who’s just been hit by a bus. Because it would be too _easy_ just to smile and say, _Thank you, Ray._ But then, of course, Benny doesn’t really _do_ easy. . .or expect it to come his way.

“Deal?” I prompt.

He nods slowly.

“Come on then. Let’s go tell him the good news. Um, it is good news? Right?”

“Very good news,” he says solemnly, and kisses me one more time in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

 

                        *                                              *                                              *

 

Driving over to the station with Fraser riding shotgun is weird, because it’s what we do, just like old times, except the old times are gone and never coming back, and the new times. . .well, every time I glance over at him and catch his eye, he gives me that new smile, the soft happy one that makes me feel like singing along to the radio, although I don’t actually do it.

When we get to the front door, though, Benny freezes up. Stops walking, closes his eyes. People are jostling by us, giving us dirty looks or curious ones. I squeeze his shoulder.

“Come on. It’ll be fine.”

He looks at me—doesn’t even try to smile, but gives me this little nod like we’re going into battle together. Then pulls himself up a little straighter and strides through the door.

Only when we get to the bullpen, Kowalski isn’t there. We finally track him down in the morgue, where Mort greets us with a big smile and a cheery wave of his bone saw. Kowalski’s standing across the gurney from him, backed up against the counter with his hands jammed in his jacket pockets; he looks like he’s struggling not to lose his lunch. Then he looks over at us, too, and his eyes go wide. He straightens up, looking right at Fraser. . .who’s looking back at him, same big eyes, same posture, same total stillness.

There’s several long seconds of dead silence; even Mort can see there’s a Moment taking place, here, one he shouldn’t interrupt. And then—it’s done.

Fraser walks over to Kowalski’s side of the table and tilts his head; Kowalski nods and steps aside. Fraser touches his shoulder, their eyes meet again, Fraser nods in the direction of the door, and Kowalski nods agreement. Then he walks out of the room and Fraser starts talking about time of death and stomach contents with Mort, as if there was nothing on his mind but the autopsy report on this stiff he’s never even heard of.

I remind myself that solving crimes ain’t my job any more, give Benny a pat on the back, and join Kowalski out in the hall.

He’s leaning up against the wall with his eyes closed, his fingers twitching in rhythm like he’s practicing drum solos in his head.

“You gonna need a barf bag?” I ask, leaning against the wall beside him.

“No,” he says without opening his eyes. “I figured I’d use your shoes.”

“Seriously, you okay?”

“Fine, yeah.” He sounds like he means it, so, good.

I’m only a little surprised he’s this grossed out by whatever got to him in there; you get used to blood and bodies when you’re a cop, but if they don’t bother you at least a little, there’s something wrong with you. I’ve seen him in action; I know he can keep his cool when it counts; now I’m seeing the price of that cool. We all pay it, one way or another. And only assholes give each other shit about it.

“You know,” he says after a second. “For a guy on leave, you’re sure cluttering up this place.”

“Just delivering Fraser,” I tell him.

“Thanks.”

“Plus, I, uh—I got to make my report.”

“Yeah?” If he were a dog, his ears would be pricking up.

“It’s all good. Me and Fraser.”

“Happy ever after?”

I’m probably grinning like an idiot, but I don’t actually care. “Looks like.”

He grins back. He’s got a nice smile; I bet he does it a lot more when Fraser’s around.

“Way to go.” He holds up his hand and we high-five like a couple of kids on the basketball court.

“So. . .” He smirks at me, bouncing a little on his toes. “What did the trick? You bring him flowers and a box of moose jerky?”

“I told him we’d move in together, I tell my family, he takes his vacations in Canada with you. And you’d better back me up on that, ‘cause it’s part of the deal.”

I smirk at his flabbergasted expression. Guess I don’t need to bother asking if he’s impressed enough.

“Shit, Vecchio. You are a class act.”

“Hey, that’s why they had to get you in to play me,” I shoot back.

It takes him a second to register the compliment; then he ducks his head, looking just as pleased/embarrassed as I feel. It’s probably a good thing for both of us that right then, Fraser pops out of the morgue.

“There’s greasepaint under his fingernails, as though he had struggled and the assailant was, well, a clown, or perhaps we should say, a theatrical performer more broadly. But one dressed for performance at the time of the killing. Only it’s not clear that ‘killing’ is an accurate description, because while the victim is bruised, there wasn’t enough trauma to be a likely cause of death. Mort’s going to analyze the stomach contents, that’ll tell us whether. . .” He’s been talking to both of us, but now he stumbles over the end of his sentence as he frowns apologetically at me.

Right. I’m not a cop any more. I’d forgotten that for a second, just like Fraser obviously did.

“Ninja mimes wielding obscure jungle poisons, huh? Have fun with that.” I smirk at the two of them.

“You don’t mind. . . ?” Fraser asks.

“Go on, you got work to do, I got apartment listings to look at.”

That gets a smile out of him, and woah! there's some serious heat behind it. But I can see he’s still a little concerned about making me feel left out, so I close the distance between us, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him.

I just meant to reassure him, but that heat in his eyes? It’s sizzling between us as he slides his tongue gently between my lips. We’re not _doing_ anything—both standing still, my hands on his face, his coming to rest on my shoulders—but I’m tingling from my mouth to my toes; my heart’s juddering like I’m in a gunfight. Sweet baby Jesus.

When we come up for air, Kowalski’s grinning at us. My face goes hot, but damn it, I’ve never been embarrassed about kissing in public before, and this isn’t even my workplace any more, and I don’t care who knows that me and Fraser are an item. And anyway, it’s just Kowalski. So when he flashes me a thumbs-up, I flip him the bird with a grin to match his.

He laughs. Fraser, watching the two of us, looks like he’s fighting not to look embarrassed himself. But he’s smiling.

“Go on, Benny, go get your man,” I say jovially, giving him a slap on the shoulder.

He shoots me a look that says he’s not going to give me a speech about the RCMP motto this time, but only because he’s in such a good mood.

“Thought he did that already,” says Kowalski, giving me a wink and Fraser a friendly elbow in the ribs. Fraser honest-to-God blushes, but his smile is a wonder to behold as Kowalski slings an arm around his shoulder and walks him down the hall. I can hear the two of them debating about alibi times and pigeon poop as they round the corner. Me, I head for my borrowed car, thinking about where I can get a good deal on a really nice bed.


End file.
